


The Dragon

by PenPatronusAooO



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, BAMF Mary, Bromance, Comforting John, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Male Friendship, Mind Palace, Moriarty is Alive, My First Work in This Fandom, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nightmares, PenPatronus, PenPatronusAooO, Poison, Pregnant Mary, Protective John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenPatronusAooO/pseuds/PenPatronusAooO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty attacks London and kidnaps Sherlock, John, and Mary.</p><p>STORY COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up right where series 3 left off! (Written before The Abominable Bride aired.) Originally published on FFnet.

Sherlock Holmes shoved the flight attendant aside and unlocked the door the moment the private plane stopped on the tarmac. He didn't wait for the stairs, just leapt out and sprinted down the runway, his hair and coat flapping like flags in the sharp wind. He ran past John and Mary, ignoring their questions, and straight to the image of James Moriarty in Mycroft's car.

**DID YOU MISS ME? DID YOU MISS ME? DID YOU MISS ME?**

In less time than it takes to blink, Sherlock saw the picture, analyzed it and came to his first conclusion. "Mycroft," he said, "any hacker could broadcast Moriarty's face. We don't know it's actually him."

"Does this convince you?" Sherlock turned to see Mycroft holding up his personal mobile. John and Mary's phones started to beep at the same time. The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes. He snatched the phone and zoomed in on the image of James Moriarty.

"Hairline receding," Sherlock muttered aloud, "additional crease beneath the right eye, extended wrinkle across the cheek. He's aged. This is recent." He tossed the phone back to Mycroft. "I thought I was going to Belgrade! You said that M.I.6. confirmed he was in Belgrade!"

"They did, yes," Mycroft sighed. “And, yes, they’re bloody fired.” 

Sherlock began to pace between the cars. "It's no coincidence, this. He returns to England the minute I leave to chase him? Mycroft, he knew I was coming for him!"

"Wait, what?" John stepped into Sherlock's path and forced the detective to look at him. "You knew that Moriarty was still alive?"

Sherlock swallowed. "I saw him die, John. I thought I did. But those explosives on the train carriage under Parliament, those were traced to his network and, eventually, to him."

"How did he survive?" Mary demanded. "You must have a theory, Sherlock."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his hands clenched into fists. "That day on the rooftop at St. Bart's, there was a sniper on the building opposite ready to kill John if I didn't jump. I've deduced that wasn't the only reason why he was there. He had bullets, yes. But he also had blood pellets. Pellets filled with Moriarty's blood type if not his actual blood."

Mycroft, who was having his own conversation on his mobile, interrupted, then. "I'm sending Mum and Dad to the States. Shall I summon Mrs. Hudson as well?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And tell her to retrieve my skull."

Mycroft signaled the other driver to surrender his car keys to Sherlock. A minute later the two drivers and Mycroft got into the first vehicle and left.

"Sherlock," John snapped. He rolled his wrists in a gesture that encouraged him to keep talking.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock cleared his throat and continued. "That sniper was waiting for Moriarty's signal and that signal was a gun in his mouth. Right when Moriarty appeared to pull the trigger, the sniper fired a blood pellet into the back of his skull, causing little more than a bruise. The gunfire was close enough that I mistook it for Moriarty's weapon discharging and I saw the blood but, in retrospect, not the actual wound since Moriarty landed on his back and… I swear, John, I thought he was dead." Sherlock's face flattened with regret, with shame. 

"Christ…" John said. His throat, which had begun to constrict with dread, suddenly became so tight that he could only whisper. "That's what you were doing… You were going to Serbia, going undercover to flush out Moriarty once and for all. God, Sherlock…" John gripped his best friend's arm. "You wouldn't have gotten out alive. You didn't expect to."

Sherlock didn't deny it.

"So now what?" Mary hugged her bulging stomach with both arms. "What does he want? What do we do?"

Sherlock's glistening eyes suddenly went dry and fixed on Mary. "What you're doing," he said, "is getting on that plane." He grabbed Mary by the elbow and started marching her down the runway.

"Sherlock!" John jogged after them.

"I'm not leaving!" Mary dug her heels into the cement. "Sherlock, I can help!"

"You're nine months pregnant!" he shouted at her. "You and the baby need to go somewhere safe." John caught up and took Mary's other arm, but didn't pull her back. "Remember how this all started last time, John?" Sherlock asked as they watched the flight crew set up the stairs. "First Molly, then he threatened you and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty goes after the people I love which is why" – they reached the stairs and Sherlock shoved them towards it – "you're BOTH getting on this plane!"

"No!" John and Mary protested simultaneously.

Sherlock shouted orders at the pilot, then returned his attention to his friends. "He was bored, John. Just BORED, last time. Imagine what he's capable of when he's truly – TRULY – motivated."

"I'm not leaving you." John's voice cracked.

Sherlock took his best friend by the shoulders. He tried to disguise the cracks in his own voice, but failed. "Please, John. I'm begging you. Sherl needs her father and as of right now I'm not a detective solving a case, I'm an outlaw going to war."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary whispered.

"Go," Sherlock whispered to John. "Just go!" And because he couldn't bear to say goodbye to his best friend for the second time in fifteen minutes, he turned his back and retreated towards the remaining car. He didn't look back when the airplane stairs were retracted, or when the engine started. It was so high-pitched and loud that the footsteps behind him went unnoticed until they were at his heels.

A hand snatched the car keys from him. "Mary hates the name 'Sherl,'" John Watson said. "So, where are we going?"

Sherlock couldn't help but grin. "Scotland Yard, of course. But first, I'm going to my grave."

\---------------------------------------------------------

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Sherlock had been asleep for only three hours when the scent of fresh tea woke him. His head popped out of the bed and, eyes still shut, he called, "John?"

"I got the papers," John Watson yelled from the adjacent room. "And cigarettes."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "What?" John didn't respond. His silence dragged Sherlock to his feet. The detective didn't bother to adjust his suit (he'd slept in his clothes) or tame his hair. However, he did salute the picture on the wall on his way out of the bedroom. "Good morning, Sir."

Sherlock padded, barefoot, into Winston Churchill's war room where John sat at the cabinet table with six newspapers, two cups of tea and four packs of smokes. It certainly felt like The Blitz with seven days of bombings and murders behind them. Every tourist attraction in London was shut down: every theatre, every museum, every monument, garden, zoo, aquarium, hall, cathedral, and palace. Half the country didn't even look out their windows which meant that the fugitive Sherlock Holmes and his two-faced accomplice, John Watson, could hide anywhere. The legendary War Rooms felt appropriate enough. 

Sherlock knew it had to be bad news if John bought him cigarettes. "Who died?" he whispered.

"Janine." John rubbed his eyes red. "They found her body last night." 

Sherlock stared at the Guardian’s headline: SHERLOCK STRIKES AGAIN – MORIARTY’S LIEUTENANT KILLS SLANDERER. The picture below it showed security footage of John and Sherlock enjoying a beer during the now infamous stag night. The night that they retraced the roads where they'd found dead bodies. It was a dark joke for them, intended to be private. But after four bodies had been found at the same pubs they attended that night, the public saw not two friends celebrating, but two criminals planning murders. The equally infamous images of Sherlock jumping out of the plane that was supposed to exile him, and John Watson driving him away, decorated the remainder of the front page.

Sherlock collapsed into a chair on John's left and started to read sections of the article out loud. "Janine Morgan, 29, former personal assistant to Holmes' first victim, Charles Augustus Magnussen… Like the other victims, Holmes left his signature deerstalker hat covering her face… Authorities continue to deny having known that Moriarty was still alive, and that Holmes and Watson were working with him all along…" Sherlock used the Guardian to cover up the other five headlines. His tea remained untouched but he went through his first cigarette in record time.

"Mary called." John took a slow sip of tea. "Called Lestrade, I mean. The police are taking her in for questioning and… protection." Another sip. "They're worried that her psychopath husband and his criminal mastermind partner might target her next."

Sherlock retrieved a pink mobile from his pocket. He turned it on and blew smoke at the wallpaper: at the grinning face of James Moriarty. The first text was the same one he'd gotten every morning since he and John found the phone perched on Sherlock's still-standing headstone in the cemetery. GOOD MORNING, SEXY, Moriarty had typed. DID YOU MISS ME?

"Did they retrieve Mrs. Hudson, too?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, too."

A flash flood of tears briefly blocked Sherlock's view of the room. "John?" he whispered.

John had his face in his hands, which muffled his tired voice. "Yeah?" 

"I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."

"Then don't."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with emotion. "I should've stayed dead," he whispered. "If I hadn't come back…"

"I'm glad you did. Granted, I’m still fairly pissed that you faked your death, Sherlock, but I’m still glad that you did.” 

"Your life is ruined because of me, John. Janine, Kitty Riley, still-hot-for-your-wife David, Lady Smallwood…Moriarty chose to murder them because of their apparent axe to grind with me, to ensure that it looked like I did it. And Moriarty, he got what he wanted. I gave it to him the moment I pulled the trigger on Magnussen." A half-hiccup, half-sob threatened to suffocate him. "I should've—"

John's hand reached for Sherlock's forearm. His other hand still covered his face, so he wasn't making eye contact when he said, "Whatever happens, Sherlock – after everything that has happened, I still, STILL thank God every day that you're alive. Every day. Every single damn day." He looked up, then. And his eyes weren't red because of the cigarette smoke. "We'll solve this," he whispered. "You and me. That's what we do."

A sudden knock on the outside door made them both jump. They waited – holding their breaths – until the knocks communicated a predetermined message in Morse code. Even then, Sherlock covered John with his handgun when he opened the door.

Lestrade stumbled into the room with two bags of groceries. When he saw Sherlock, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Rough time so I brought you—” He smelled the tobacco, then. “Oh, never mind."

"Did you talk to Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

Greg let John take the supplies out of his hands. "Yeah, half an hour ago. They're fine. Your mum and dad are fine. He said he'll be here as soon as he finishes planting more evidence that you're on a train heading north."

"What was the total number of dead at the London Eye?"

Greg licked his lips and looked at John for help. "Sherlock, there's nothing you could have done—"

"How many died?" the detective snapped.

Lestrade took two steps backward. "F-Forty," he stuttered. "We arrested a bloke who worked maintenance there. Hope to cut a deal with him for Moriarty's location."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and marched back over to his chair. "Seven bombs in seven days, eighteen arrests and you think this one will be your lucky number?" He lit another cigarette and then chucked his cup at the wall.

"Oi!" Lestrade gasped when liquid splashed down a faded, pockmarked map of England. "This is Winston-Bloody-Churchill's cabinet war room, you maniac! Those maps have been on that wall since the 1940's, and you’re dousing them with tea!"

Sherlock glared, then threw John's cup as well.

"Dammit," Lestrade hissed. He adjusted his collar and turned back to John. "Look, I can't stay. Donovan has a lead on the Waters Gang. It's likely they're going after the Bank of England since it's the only bloody coffer they haven't emptied yet."

Sherlock, who had begun to pace, suddenly stopped and stared at the maps on the wall.

John held up one of the cans of beans. "All right. Thanks. We'll be in touch." He glanced at the statue that was Sherlock, then whispered to Lestrade, "Have Molly get a sedative, will you? He hasn't been sleeping."

"Right." Lestrade waved goodbye, and exited.

"How long has the Waters family been active, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked.

"He left, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked. "How long has the Waters family been robbing banks, Doctor?"

John walked over to see what Sherlock was staring at that was so interesting. "Uh… Two, two and a half years, give or take. Why?"

The detective's dry lips parted. "Here there be dragons," he whispered.

"Huh?"

Sherlock moved stiffly, zombie-like, around the table. "Dragons, John," he said. A grin bloomed across his face. "What do dragons hoard? Gold." Sherlock found a marker, some push pins, and started digging into the pile of newspapers John had assembled. "What has Moriarty been doing for the past three years?" he muttered. "Planning, yes, and getting the funds to go through with his plans. He's robbed banks before…"

John's head cocked to the side. For the first time in a week he started to feel hopeful. "You think that the Waters Gang is working for Moriarty?"

Frantically, Sherlock started writing names on Churchill's maps, pinning up newspaper article and pictures, marking locations, and drawing lines connecting them. "How else does he make money? With secrets. As Richard Brook he told secrets to Kitty Riley. Everything about me, he learned from Mycroft. Kitty was a journalist who – surprise, surprise – was working for a newspaper that was owned by—"

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," said John.

Sherlock didn't hear him. "Charles Augustus Magnussen,” he said, answering his own question. “Charles Augustus Magnussen, who knew so much about me – who knew about my dead dog, for Christ's sake! Imagine how much money Moriarty could've made by selling little tips like that to the Napoleon of Blackmail, who he got connected with via Miss Riley."

"Oh, my God," John whispered. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, he was in awe of his friend.

"And why hasn't the Waters Gang been caught? Why has Moriarty murdered people who MIGHT have cause to hate me, but not the one person who has ALWAYS publically despised me so much that she calls me a—"

John had to sit down. "A freak…"

\---------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft Holmes entered his office at 5am and started brewing tea. The water hadn't even warmed up yet when a voice asked, "Do you love your brother?"

Mycroft looked at the glass face on a clock above his head. He squinted until a man-shaped silhouette appeared in the reflection. "Yes," he answered. His shoulders refused to obey when he ordered them to relax. "Yes, I do."

The reflection shut the door and then sat down in a chair by the window. "I envy that. I grew up alone. No siblings, just a father who beat me when his football team lost, a mother who lived in a fog of alcohol and sleeping pills, and a neighborhood of boring, ordinary bullies."

Mycroft calmly poured two cups of tea as he listened.

"If I'd had a brother – someone on the same intellectual level to distract me from the dark thoughts – maybe I'd be more like you and Sherlock. More angel than devil."

"I'm no angel." Mycroft mentally slapped his own wrist, a punishment for engaging.

"My childhood was so boring. You two played chess, played detective. I spent my time hiding from bullies and drowning anthills." Mycroft carried the tea over and sat down across from the intruder. "That's what I'm doing now," said James Moriarty. "London is just an anthill. And I'm pissing on it."

The elder Holmes forced himself to make eye contact with the man who wanted to murder his brother. Moriarty was dressed in a crisp, tailored gray suit. His skin had aged in three years but, bizarrely, his eyes looked younger. They were sparkling, excited, wide. Mycroft's eyes flitted over every detail: the red mud on Moriarty's black shoes, the nearly undetectable scent of sulfur, and the pea-sized brown briar stuck to the inside of his pants. "Would you like a scone?" he asked. "I have blueberry and cranberry but I'd be happy to send for a lemon."

"That's what I like most about you Holmes boys. Your manners." Moriarty's smile was more unnerving than anything else. "I already got what I wanted. Such a merry Christmas, wasn't it?"

Mycroft covered his frown by sipping his tea.

Moriarty sighed contentedly. "I spent so much time trying to discredit him, turn his friends against him, make him look like a fraud, a kidnapper. I tried so hard to turn him into a criminal and then – VOILA! – he did it to himself." Moriarty pointed his forefinger at his temple and mimed a pointblank gunshot. Mycroft's stomach churned but his face remained expressionless. Moriarty shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, a smile pointed at the ceiling like he was basking in a warm noon sun. "Sherlock's like me, now. More devil than angel. More Moriarty than Holmes. More my brother than yours. I'm so PROUD of him."

The tea in Mycroft's stomach threatened to exit his mouth. "So… no scone?"

"No, thank you. Just your brother's head, please." The corners of Moriarty's lips spread out like a bird stretching its wings. 

"My brother is a fugitive wanted for murder. The whole country wants his head."

The criminal mastermind pouted his lips like a wounded child. "I wanted him first."

"You got what you wanted. He's a criminal." 

"That was the first thing on my Christmas list, yes. The second thing I want is his life. It'd be pointless to have one but not the other – like buying a child a remote-control car but no batteries to run it."

"That's why you're here?" Mycroft wondered aloud. "You expect me to tell you where he is?"

Moriarty suddenly clapped his hands together. In the small office it was as loud as thunder. "I'm here to make a deal." Moriarty leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's quite simple: give me Sherlock. Every day that you don't give me Sherlock is another day that a bomb will go off somewhere in London. I'll even give you my address." Moriarty slammed his foot to the floor and a half dozen flakes of dried mud slid off his shoe. He pointed at the dirt and said, "Ta da."

"No," Mycroft said.

Moriarty shrugged. "Counter offer. A compromise. Give me John Watson and I'll only set off a bomb every other day. We both know that Sherlock will want to be dead if John is."

"No."

"You're going to lose your brother no matter what. If I don't kill him, your government will execute him. If by some miracle they offer exile again, you'll still be separated and I will still find and kill him." Moriarty stood. He rotated his shoulders and buttoned his suit coat. The man looked like he'd just enjoyed a massage. "You need to get in the game, Mycroft. I used to be on the sidelines, like you. Behind the scenes. I sat in my web and pulled the strings. You have as many strings as I do and now every single one is a noose around Sherlock's neck." Moriarty walked behind Mycroft and whispered in his ear. "No matter which way you pull those strings they will hang him. And if you don't give me what I want, then London will join him on the gallows."

Just before Moriarty politely shut the door behind him he said, "I'll see you soon."

\---------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock was in his childhood library – the one with the giant mobile of airplanes hanging from the tapered ceiling. He sat cross-legged on the wood floor with his back against the history section. It was Winston Wednesday, as his father liked to call it. In general, Sherlock was allowed to read anything he wanted. In fact, he was encouraged to read everything, but his father always insisted that Wednesdays be reserved for at least one biography about Winston Churchill.

"You call this a Mind Palace?" Sherlock looked up to see James Moriarty leaning against the shelves. "There are kids playing computer games and a bum using the HARRY POTTER series for a pillow. You call this a palace?"

Mind-Palace-Sherlock shut his eyes and made a wish. Mind-Palace-Moriarty was still there when he opened them. "How did you get loose?" he asked.

Moriarty shrugged off the rest of his straightjacket and smoothed down his gray suit. "I didn't. You released me, remember?"

A frown slid down Sherlock's face. "Why would I do that? You're dangerous. You should stay locked in the dungeon."

"Dungeon?" Moriarty snorted at the word. "Is there a moat, too? Let me guess – John's the jester?"

Sherlock climbed to his feet and backed away. "John's not here. He's supposed to stay outside."

A thunderclap of a laugh launched out of Moriarty's throat. "Like a stray dog?"

"John Watson keeps me right," said Sherlock. "The voices in here are the ones I don't usually listen to outside of the Mind Palace. Hard to tell the difference between the mind and reality if you let them blend together." Sherlock scooted further away. The biography in his hands was a shield between him and Moriarty. "I always listen to John. I always hear him. And he hears me. Now tell me – how did you escape?" Sherlock demanded.

"Like I said, you released me." Moriarty suddenly batted the book out of Sherlock's grasp. "You released me the moment you murdered Charles Augustus Magnusson."

"No," Sherlock whispered. His eyebrows formed a "V." "This is my mind and I control it. The only time I couldn’t control it was when…" Sherlock hung his head. 

Moriarty's giggle resembled a small child's. "When you were dying! Brilliant. If you can't control it now then, well, you must be dying as we speak!"

The bookshelves started to crumble. Airplanes crashed around them. Sherlock backed up until his heel hit a wall. "I'm not. I'm not dying so I must… I must be dreaming."

Moriarty's eyes flashed. "Knowing you're in a dream doesn't mean you can control it," he said. "Just because you know you're asleep doesn't mean you can wake up."

Suddenly, a straightjacket entangled Sherlock's arms. A blink later and he was in the padded cell, the dungeon, and Moriarty was chaining him to the wall. "No, no!" Sherlock gasped. "I'm in control of my mind – not you, not YOU!"

"Not anymore," Moriarty sneered as he exited. "Not anymore!" The door locked. The lights disappeared.

"John!" Sherlock screamed. "JOHN!"

Sherlock woke up with shackles around his wrists. He lashed out, fueled by fear and adrenaline, and his fists hit flesh, dug like shovels into dirt. A gasp, an "Ooof!" and the world flipped over. He fell onto a floor that was definitely not padded.

"Sherlock – SHERLOCK!"

It was Moriarty's voice – or was it? Sherlock suddenly remembered that he could open his eyes. His mind immediately registered and analyzed everything he saw: a crisscross of black and gray cotton and the seam of a sweater collar. The bed he'd fallen out of was on his right and blurred, pixelated. His sense of touch confirmed that the shackles around his wrists were actually hands. Nostrils started to work. Familiar scents calmed him: ink, antibacterial soap, deodorant.

**"Sherlock?"**

For a brief moment he thought that ghostly hands were clawing his bare skin but it was just one hand, one palm, gently rubbing his back from his hip to his neck. Up, down. Up, down, in time with his heartbeat – or was his heartbeat in time with it? The slower the motion, the slower his pulse. Winston Churchill's bedroom came into focus. Relief replaced terror and the fight went out of him. Sherlock's body deflated and he collapsed into the embrace, his bare chest squished against a ribcage, his nose against a collarbone. "John…"

"Got you," John whispered breathlessly in his ear. "Just a nightmare. You're ok. It's ok." Sherlock gathered a fistful of John's sweater. Sweat – the type that's both hot and cold – sprung from his pores. John held him tighter. "I've got you," John repeated over and over. "I've got you." Sherlock focused on John's hand on his naked spine: up, down, up, down, up, down. The rhythm, the reality of it, the consistency of it, relaxed him. But, suddenly, fingers replaced the palm. They started to poke and prod at the skin instead of rub. "Jesus, Sherlock, are those scars?" John shifted Sherlock's body clockwise to get a better look at his back. "Oh my God…"

Exhausted physically, emotionally and in every other way imaginable, Sherlock stayed still in John's arms and let the doctor examine the year-old wounds. It wasn't until John's breathing got louder and his body started to tremble that Sherlock realized he was genuinely upset. "Who did this to you?" John whispered. "You were tortured – Jesus, Sherlock – you were tortured!" When Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even move, John resumed rubbing his back. "Never going to happen," John whispered. Every other word was enunciated with a hitched breath. "Swear to God I will never let anyone hurt you again."

The click of a cocked gun made them both look up at the door. A woman in police armor stood in the bedroom doorway with a pistol pointed at them. 

"Touching scene," said Sally Donovan, "coming from two murderers." 

Keeping his hand behind Sherlock's neck to support his weight, John rotated his body so that his own heart stood between his friend's and the gun. "Stay where you are!" Sally barked. With her eyes still fixed on them she tipped her head and shouted out the door, "They're in here, Sir!"

Lestrade ran in. "Jesus," he sputtered at the sight of the pale and trembling Sherlock. "Did you shoot him? Looks half dead!"

A smug smile bloomed across Sally's face. "Lucky, this," she said. "We just happened to be driving by, saw the door ajar and what do you know? Here's the rat trapped in his hole."

"Actually…" Lestrade unsheathed his weapon and jabbed the barrel of the gun into the back of Donovan's neck. "This trap is for you," he growled. "Put the gun down. Now."

"Sir?" For one wild moment it looked like Donovan was still going to pull the trigger. But then her hand started to tremble and her arms dropped to her side. Lestrade snatched the gun before she could change her mind. "Sir, whatever these criminals have told you—"

"Shut up!" Lestrade bellowed. "John, a hand, please?"

John hesitated, but Sherlock sat up on his own and leaned back against the bed. He fluttered his fingers at John – a 'go on' gesture. John took a handful of zip ties out of Donovan's jacket and, with Lestrade holding his weapon steady, cuffed her hands behind her back. "We have some questions for you," John told Sally. "And you better have some bloody good answers."

Sally kept a straight face for a second more, but then it crumbled. "It's not what you think," she whispered.

"Is Molly here?" John asked Lestrade. The inspector shook his head. "Call her, will you? Mycroft, too? We'll be out in a moment." Lestrade nodded and led Donovan into the cabinet room. Two scratch-squeaks of old chairs told the remaining two that Lestrade forced their prisoner to sit at the table.

John turned back to Sherlock. "You ok?" he asked, squatting on his haunches and grasping the detective's shoulder. "We can interrogate her ourselves if you're not up for this—"

"I'm fine," Sherlock whispered. He cleared his dry throat and spoke with more conviction. "I should get dressed."

John examined his friend's face. "Sherlock—"

"I'll be out in a minute."

An hour later there were six people sitting around the large oval table: Donovan with her hands still bound, Lestrade three chairs down on her left and Molly four chairs on her right, Sherlock at the farthest seat across from her between John and Mycroft. "Let me explain," she said when everyone settled in. "It's not what you think, Greg. It really isn't."

"What I think," said Lestrade, "is that you've been helping the Waters Gang avoid getting caught for the past two years." 

Sally looked down at her lap.

"I think you're working for Moriarty."

Her eyes stayed down.

"I think you're helping Moriarty discredit Sherlock."

"No," Sally said to her shoes. "That's not true."

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock stopped him. "She's telling the truth. She thought I was dead when Moriarty recruited her to help the bank robberies, therefore she wasn't motivated to harm me. She's protecting someone." Sally squeezed her eyes shut and a tear the size of a pinprick slipped out and scuttled down her cheek. "Who did Moriarty threaten?" Sherlock asked her. "It must be someone he has easy access to, but not someone you could tell the police about. Who are you protecting?"

"The man I love," Donovan whispered. She looked at Molly for understanding. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to protect him."

Molly kept a straight face except for pursing her lips. "And who's that?" she asked.

Donovan's eyes flitted to the left. The movement was too slow for anyone but Sherlock Holmes to catch. "Gerald?" His eyebrows disappeared behind a curl of black hair. "You're in love with Gerald?"

"Who?" four voices asked.

Sherlock cocked his chin at Lestrade who said, "For God's sake, Sherlock, will you ever remember my name—" Lestrade's jaw dropped. "Wait, Donovan, ME?" Sally's gaze returned to her lap. "Why didn't you – you could've told me, Sally. I can protect myself!"

She snorted. "From Moriarty? There's no beating him. I couldn't risk it."

A raw flush rose from Lestrade's neck to his hairline. "So… you haven't killed anyone?"

"No. I swear. No."

"Do you know who he plans to murder next? Do you know where the next bomb will go off?"

"No."

Four pairs of eyes looked to Sherlock. He nodded a confirmation that she was telling the truth.

"All I've been doing is telling the Waters family when the police are on to them. I've rarely spoken with Moriarty directly."

John cursed under his breath and said, "So you can't help us find him. You don't know where is?"

"I do." Mycroft retrieved a plastic baggie from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. "Moriarty visited me this morning. He left enough evidence behind that, with Miss Hooper's help, should lead us to his hideout."

Sherlock opened the bag of dirt and sniffed. "And if we find him, then what?" he wondered. "Do you have a plan, brother?"

Mycroft smiled without revealing his teeth. "As a matter of fact I do. We give him you."

The bomb went off, then. 

When the bomb went off, Mycroft had just opened his mouth to explain why his plan involved turning Sherlock over to Moriarty.

When the bomb went off, Donovan had just made eye contact with Greg Lestrade for the first time since she admitted she loved him.

When the bomb went off, Molly had just reached for her backpack under the table. She brought a kit with her from the lab that included a microscope and vials of catalyzing chemicals.

When the bomb went off, Lestrade was wondering how he never noticed that Donovan cared for him. She didn't hate Sherlock for the reasons other people did – because he was Sherlock. She hated him because he made the man she loved look like a fool.

When the bomb went off, John already sensed it coming. Thanks to his time in Afghanistan he knew that the crescendo of sound and vibration wasn't an earthquake. It wasn't enough time to duck or even yell. It was only enough time for his eyes to meet his best friend's and go wide.

When the bomb went off, the bag of dirt Mycroft retrieved from Moriarty's shoes was blasted out of Sherlock's hand. Curious, he watched its flight into the air. It fluttered momentarily like a falling leaf, then disappeared in a barrage of smoke. The world slowed down, dragging Time with it. It was like Mary shooting him in the chest all over again. Sirens erupted in his mind. His mind got to work.

"You're underneath the treasury building," said Mind-Palace-Anderson's voice in his head. "An ideal target for a terrorist."

"So it's a coincidence," Sherlock concluded. "Moriarty doesn't know we're here. This just happens to be the next location on his list."

"The bomb is several rooms away. If it wasn't a coincidence you'd already be dead. He would've put that bomb in a better location."

"We're in a bunker," Sherlock told him. "Churchill's wartime bunker. How many bombs were dropped on it during the War? It survived that. It will survive this."

"No," said Anderson. "Those bombs landed on it from above. This one is inside the building. It's blasting right through the wall behind Donovan." Anderson was right. Sherlock watched as, in slow motion, the individual bricks behind Sally started to bombard her like bullets. She disappeared in smoke. In Sherlock's peripheral vision, the fog engulfed Molly and Lestrade, too.

"You have half a second," said Anderson's voice in Sherlock's head. "What are you going to do? What do you need to do first?"

"I… I…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Avoid the debris." He saw the table in front of him, felt the chair under him, remembered Mycroft's umbrella beside him. "Get shelter. Protection. Use the table like a shield."

"And then what?"

"Get the others. John, Mycroft, they’re the ones within arm's reach. Shelter them, too."

"Good. And?"

Sherlock's focus was threatened by the miniscule brick dust and sparks starting to hit his pupils. "Get out before the building collapses. I smell fire – the building is on fire."

"There isn't time to help the others. You'll expose yourself," Anderson reminded him. "You're a block from Downing Street. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks will be here in eight minutes. If you live that long they'll catch you, arrest you. If you're going to survive you need to leave the others behind, get to Lestrade's car and drive away."

"No." Flames began to lick at Sherlock's nose. "That's the wrong thing to do."

"The wrong thing to do is to let Moriarty get away with murdering your friends. You won't be able to avenge them if you're in a prison cell."

"I'll hide," Sherlock said, "and I'll escape this tomb, but I won't run away."

Anderson's voice drifted. "Whatever you're going to do, you better do it fast. Your coat's on fire, Sherlock. You're on fire."

Sherlock's mind whiplashed to the present. He moved faster than he ever imagined he was capable of. He flipped the table up and blocked the incoming brick bullets. Simultaneously he grabbed Mycroft and John by their shirt collars. He pushed them down while scooping his brother's umbrella up with his foot. As the other two fell forward, Sherlock stayed on his feet long enough to unsheathe the umbrella and hold it above them all, protecting their heads from the dust raining down from the ceiling. The bricks hit the table like an avalanche and propelled it forward. Sherlock, Mycroft, and John, their limbs tangled and their own screams deafening each other, were pushed against the far wall. Sparks landed in their hair. The floor buckled, spit knife-like shards of stone up at them. 

At the first silence, and as if they had one mind and one body between them, the three braced their shoes against the table and kicked it away. "Get Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted at John. "Donovan!" he ordered Mycroft. Sherlock pushed them towards their charges while he crawled to the left. "Molly!" Sherlock shouted. Black smoke strangled him and he coughed. "Molly – MOLLY!" He spotted a pink and white hand. Sherlock grabbed it, found a pulse in the wrist, and yanked it out from under a chair. With Molly gathered in his arms, Sherlock stumbled towards the exit. The fire lit his way – fire falling from above. John suddenly appeared beside him with his hands under Lestrade's armpits. Mycroft had the Detective Inspector's feet and Sherlock knew, then, that Donovan was irretrievable. He led the way through a shrinking, stinking, burning hall of debris. He ordered his legs to keep moving, heard John and Mycroft's footsteps behind him.

Suddenly, the smoke all but replaced the oxygen in his lungs.

Sherlock crumpled to his knees. Molly felt so feather-light but now her weight threatened to topple him completely. "Get up!" John yelled behind him. "Sherlock, get up – GET UP!" Something solid – maybe the tip of John's shoe – poked his back. The door to the outside was melting. Only a sliver of afternoon sunlight remained visible. Sherlock grit his teeth and charged at the sunlight like a bull at a matador. He stumbled over the sidewalk and into the street where he barely missed being hit by an ambulance.

John led the way to the other side of the road where he and Mycroft set the unconscious Lestrade down on the sidewalk. He was in “doctor” mode – checking the Detective Inspector's pulse and breathing, ripping up his own jacket to bandage the wounds while ordering Mycroft to do the same. Molly's arms suddenly wrapped around Sherlock's neck. He almost dropped her, he was so startled. "Sherlock," she squeaked. "Your head – you're hurt—" She erupted into coughs then, and buried her face in his shoulder.

Sherlock stumbled forward until his knees banged into something solid. A car. The hood of a stationary police vehicle, he realized. He adjusted Molly and laid her, as gently as he could, onto the sloping hood. He started to speak but only vowels came out. The world swayed and he nearly passed out. Mind-Palace-Anderson's voice reminded him to breathe, and he obeyed. Molly's face came into focus, inches from his and he realized so very suddenly and with so much clarity that she was DAZZLING. He also knew he was injured and in shock and in trouble because right then and there, he told her so.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

If she heard him she didn't acknowledge the compliment. Her fingers were twisting around his shirt collar, pulling him close. "The dirt," she choked out. "What did you smell – what did it smell like?" More ambulances drove up. Uniformed figures emerged and started shouting incomprehensible words. Sherlock saw two medics put oxygen masks on Lestrade and Mycroft. A third handed one to John but he batted it away. He was yelling and pointing and coughing and Sherlock couldn't figure out if the red on his body was blood or burned skin. "Sherlock!" Molly cried. "Look at me – focus! What did it smell like?"

It seemed like a million years had passed since then, but it had to be ten minutes, maybe. Sherlock's reflex was to answer the question: "Sulfur, clay, diesel," he said. "Iron, pine, coal… Train tracks. He was walking on train tracks. Unused ones, most likely."

"Tracks," Molly repeated. She clutched her chest, then grabbed for his other hand. "One of the ghost stations? One – one of the forgotten tracks like the one with the bomb carriage? Is he underground?"

"Y-Yes. M-Maybe. Likely." An exceptionally sharp pain zipped between Sherlock's throat and lungs. He fought through it, fought to keep thinking. "No, wait… Disused tracks, yes, but not underground. The pine – near the woods. An abandoned train station in the woods, Molly."

She managed to get out a sentence while coughing every other word. "Narrow… it… down… What else, Sherlock?"

A flash of light distracted him. The building they'd just escaped was on fire, and it was growing brighter, hotter. Sherlock looked around for his friends. Paramedics were loading Lestrade and Mycroft into an ambulance, but he couldn't see John. Sherlock's attention returned to Molly and he squeezed her hand. "Are you all right?" he asked her. She nodded. "I have to go find John. I'll be right back." Tears sprung to her eyes and she suddenly looked twice as frightened. Before she could say anything, Sherlock kissed her cheek and turned, leaving her on the car just as a medic ran up. A legion of masked firemen dragged hoses down the street. Sherlock leapt over them and ran back towards the building. He just knew that his friend was stupid enough to double check on Donovan. " **JOHN!** " he yelled, or tried to over the crowd.

He spotted a familiar silhouette a block away. Two paramedics had a hold of John's arms and they were shepherding him towards an ambulance. It took Sherlock's bruised and burned mind an extra second to realize that they were actually dragging him. He was unconscious, his feet scraping against the sidewalk. Sherlock broke into a run and got to the ambulance just as the medics put John on one of the gurneys and strapped an oxygen mask around his mouth.

"Is he hurt?" Sherlock demanded. "He was on his feet a minute ago!" Sherlock attempted to climb into the ambulance after him but his legs wouldn't cooperate. Dizzy, he tried to lean against the door and would have missed it completely if a paramedic hadn't caught his elbow.

"Easy, mate," the medic said. "Come on, leg up, you need to go to hospital, too." Sherlock didn't argue. He let the medic guide him into the ambulance and lay on the gurney beside John. He didn't put up a fight against the oxygen mask. Sherlock turned his head and examined John limp, and still, and frowning. "I'll take care of you two," the medic said. He knelt between the two men as the ambulance siren started and the van began to pull away from the scene. "It's all right, Mr. Holmes," the man said. Sherlock squinted. The face was smiling, grinning, shining. That face…

"I'll take care of you, Sherlock," said James Moriarty. He adjusted the mask on Sherlock's face and the detective realized that it wasn't oxygen he was inhaling. "Get some rest… You're going to need it."

Sherlock tried to yell for help, tried to at least attempt to put up a fight, but the ambulance's siren was screaming and the road moved beneath them and a moment later, he passed out.

\---------------------------------------------------------

It was the music that woke him up. Familiar violin music. His personal recording of John and Mary's waltz. Sharp scents stung Sherlock's nostrils. Chlorine, soap, water, disinfectant. He willed himself not to sneeze, not to scratch his nose. He willed his breathing to stay even, as if in sleep. Eyelids parted a miniscule amount, and Sherlock saw that he was propped up in a metal folding chair against a wall. He was back at the pool – the same pool where Carl Powers died and where Moriarty nearly murdered Sherlock and John.

Full circle. They'd come full circle.

Two figures stood in front of him with their backs turned and their toes on the edge of the pool – the deep end of it. They were gagged, and their bodies were hogtied top to bottom with thick cords. It was John on Sherlock's right and on his left, was Mary. Her knees trembled and she shifted her weight constantly to keep from falling into the deep water. She hadn't had the baby yet. Her stomach was still swollen. All things considered, she looked unharmed. John, on the other hand, was filthy from the explosion. Most of his weight was on his right foot. A steady trickle of blood leaked from his left pant leg and from his right shoulder. Sherlock took inventory of his own body and identified a throb on the back of his head. His right knee was numb and, he noticed, swollen to twice its size. His stomach growled from hunger and his throat stung from thirst.

Suddenly something grabbed his chin and lifted his face. Sherlock couldn't help but open his eyes from the shock of it. The bomb had effected his ears, so he also failed to hear the man approach. Mary's shoulders shook. She must have been crying, but he couldn't hear her. Moriarty grinned at Sherlock. "Did you miss me?" he asked.

Sherlock sat up straight. "No," he said, his voice raspy. "No, I didn't."

Moriarty patted his cheek. "I missed you. I've had a lot of fun the past few years, sure, but not as much fun as I had with you, Sherlock." Moriarty reached into his vest pocket and took out a short, round bottle with a capsule inside it. "Remember this?"

Sherlock glared at the pill. "Vaguely. _A Study in Pink_ was a relatively boring case, actually." Sherlock could tell by Moriarty's smile that he knew he was lying. "Is that how you plan to kill me?"

The waltz finished its last verse and then started up again.

A faux wounded look crossed Moriarty’s face. "Still so obvious, Sherlock. You still fail to appreciate my creativity." The throbbing in Sherlock's head reached the back of his eye and he winced. "Do you remember when we had our first talk here?" Moriarty asked. "Our first proper chat, I mean. Do you remember what I told you I would do to you?"

"Burn my heart out." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And they say I'm a drama queen."

Moriarty smacked Sherlock across the face so hard that his neck cracked when it turned. Sherlock coughed and spit onto the floor.

"Your heart," Moriarty murmured. He backed up a few steps until he stood between John and Mary. "Three years ago your heart was your reputation. Your integrity. Your desperate, foolish need for people to take your word as gospel. Your need to be RIGHT." The criminal mastermind slid closer to John, his black shoes squeaking through a shallow puddle of water. "And your friends, too. Yes, your friends are your heart." Moriarty nudged John's elbow. The doctor swayed, grunted through his gag, but managed to right himself before he toppled into the water. "This is a bit cartoony…" Moriarty muttered apologetically. "Might as well have tied you to the train tracks, Johnny-boy." Sherlock summoned his strength and his courage, and stood up. Moriarty immediately unsheathed a gun and pointed it at John's head. If his hands had been free, Sherlock would have raised them in surrender. Moriarty continued talking, unfazed. "Nowadays your heart is still your friends, yes. What you said in your toast at the wedding about John saving you was moving. Truly, truly poignant."

For the first time since he woke up, Sherlock started to sweat. The extra moisture made sawing through his bonds with his fingernails all the more complicated. Complicated, but far from impossible. 

Moriarty wiped away a fake tear. "Truly. But it was the vow you made that really got my attention, Sherlock. You were serious about that. So determined. That vow – your first, only, and last – that’s your heart."

"Can we get on with it?" Sherlock suddenly snapped. "I know what you want me to do."

Moriarty cocked his head to the side. "Oh?"

"That pill isn't meant for me. You want me to choose who to poison: Mary or John. And if I don't choose you'll shoot them both."

"No," said Moriarty. "If you don't choose I'll shoot all three of you, actually." He shrugged.

"I've decided," Sherlock said. He ripped his bonds the rest of the way off and tossed them aside. He held his hand, palm up, for the pill.

Moriarty stepped towards him with his gun in one hand and the bottle in the other. "Which one?" he asked. "I'm curious. Which one are you going to kill?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. He willed his voice to remain steady. "John is the logical choice. If I kill Mary then I kill the baby, too." 

The last thing Sherlock expected Moriarty to do was to bounce gleefully on the balls of his feet. "Would it change your mind if I told you that Mary is no longer pregnant?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted over her. "Clearly she is."

Moriarty showed every tooth with his smile. With the drama and pizazz of a circus ringmaster he skipped over to Mary and reached under the back of her shirt. Sherlock heard something click, and then something sliding over skin. He and John watched, mouths agape, as a something rubbery slid out of the front of Mary's shirt and splashed into the water.

A fat suit.

The baby was GONE.

"Oh, your FACES!" Moriarty said gleefully. "Should’ve recorded this." John swayed and groaned. Mary's shoulders shook harder. Sherlock's tongue went dry from his mouth hanging open so long.

"Before you go assuming I’m a monster, I assure you that the whole thing went smoothly despite the fact that it was probably stress-induced," said Moriarty. "I was there holding her hand the whole time. Had my own top-notch physicians handle it. Poor Mary probably needs some more pain medication by now…"

Sherlock's hands started to shake. He couldn't still them, no matter how hard he tried. "Where’s the baby?" Sherlock whispered. That whisper crescendo-ed into a yell. "WHERE IS SHE?"

Moriarty's face went stone cold. He marched over to Sherlock and held out the pill. "Break your vow to keep them both alive," he told Sherlock. "Break your vow and I'll return her."

Sherlock didn't realize that there were tears in his eyes until one suddenly plopped onto his cheek. His fingers trembled so hard that he could barely grip the capsule. He did, though. Moriarty stepped backwards towards John and Mary and watched, waited, for Sherlock to step forward and reveal his choice – his victim. John made a noise that might have been Sherlock's name.

And then, with a triumphant smirk, Sherlock did what he'd planned to all along.

He popped the pill into his own mouth and swallowed it.

Moriarty's grin didn't deflate. "Knew you'd do that," he whispered. And then he pushed the hogtied John and Mary into the water.

Sherlock calculated that he had fifteen seconds before the poison went into effect. The countdown started in his head:

15

Sherlock sprinted to the pool. He shoved Moriarty aside (and snatched a foldup knife out of the criminal mastermind’s pocket in the process) and dove into the water.

14

Knife between his teeth. Eyes wide open. The closest body was Mary.

13

He caught up with her with two kicks of his long legs.

12

She twisted onto her back as she sank – her bound arms outstretched and parted just wide enough…

11

…for Sherlock to squeeze his head through. He was able to swim with both legs and both arms while she hung around his neck.

10

Kick – kick – kick.

9

They surfaced, both gasping. Sherlock reached the edge of the pool.

8

He took her wrists in one hand – swung them up over his head – braced his other hand under her butt and pushed.

7

Two-thirds of Mary was over the rim. Sherlock spit out the pocket knife and shoved it between her fingers.

6

Deep breath – push off the wall – dive back down.

5

Bubbles – chlorine stinging – a shadow at the bottom of the pool.

4

With each kick he thought his friend's name. John – kick – John – kick – John! Coils of rope drifted to the left and right. John managed to free his wrists, but he couldn't swim far without his legs.

3

Hand grabbed hand. Sherlock's shoes touched the bottom and with the mightiest leap he could muster he propelled them both towards the surface.

2

They swam. They surfaced. John spit out a mouthful of water. They both saw Mary pulling the rest of her body over the edge of the pool.

1

Sherlock's left fingertips touched the wall. He pushed himself straight down and arranged his right shoulder against the backs of John's knees, and braced his right hand against the small of John's back. 

0

He lifted John halfway out of the water and hoped-prayed that he was able to grip something and pull himself the rest of the—

A memory of Redbeard popped into his mind. His mother was always so careful to cut his nails, but she must have forgotten because they were wrestling and Redbeard clawed Sherlock's eye. It bled and throbbed and when he cried, the salt made it sting. That pain, multiplied by a thousand, suddenly erupted in Sherlock's stomach. It felt like animal claws were scratching every inch of his guts. His legs went numb and limp, useless. Elbows, shoulders, fingers stiffened, seized, burned. As he started to sink he considered the irony – with Molly's help he'd built up a tolerance to Moriarty's poison – it would incapacitate him, but not kill him – but that didn't matter, didn't matter at all because he was going to drown. He was still going to drown…

**John…**

A jolt of blinding agony shot through him like lightning. He couldn't feel anything anymore. Not the pain, not the water filling his lungs, not the iron grip of a hand suddenly around his wrist. Slowly – like he was being pulled through quicksand instead of water – Sherlock was lifted to the surface. Mary acted like a counterweight with her body on top of John's feet. She kept him from falling back into the water as he used every last bit of strength in his arms to pull his best friend onto the dry floor. The paralyzed Sherlock could only watch, curious, and as if from a long distance, as his body left the water and curled up, trembling between John and Mary.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. He must have already diagnosed the symptoms because he tried to get him to vomit up the poison. Sherlock's body wouldn't cooperate.

"Too late—" Sherlock told him with numb lips and a tongue like a ship's anchor. "Ok… It's ok, John. Im-Immune…"

John leaned closer. Water dripped from his nose onto Sherlock's. "What?" he asked. "What are you saying, Sherlock?"

"He's trying to explain to you that he's built up a tolerance." Moriarty. The son of a bitch was still standing there ten feet away – a calm, amused audience watching the show. "If he hadn't he'd be dead by now." Moriarty sighed. He scratched the back of his head with the barrel of his gun. "You three are really making all of this difficult for me. I didn't want to have to shoot you. Makes such a mess. I'd hate to inconvenience the janitorial staff here."

Sherlock knew that look on John’s face. That "just-shoot-us-already" look. The three of them were going to die, so there was just one last question to ask. John didn't muster a poker face, didn't try to sound tough or intimidating, didn't hold back his tears. "Don't hurt my daughter," he pleaded. "I don't care what happens to anyone else just – please – my baby, don't hurt her."

Moriarty blinked. "All right."

Sherlock wondered if he and Molly missed a symptom when they analyzed the effects of the poison, because he had to be hallucinating. Was Moriarty being… merciful?

"All right." Moriarty shrugged. "Your Detective Inspector has probably found her by now, anyway. If they accurately analyzed the clue I left for Mycroft then they're busting into every ghost station in London. Your baby is in one of them. But, unfortunately, so is the HOUND toxin."

"What?"

It was Moriarty's favorite part: the reveal. The pleasure of unveiling his plan. "You remember, Doctor. Remember in Baskerville? The gas you inhaled that made you hallucinate? When Lestrade's men enter those ghost stations they'll trigger explosions that will unleash that toxin. Everyone in London will be effected and this city will fall into chaos."

Sherlock tried to calculate which ghost stations it would be – which ones were strategic. He had to tell Lestrade. He had to figure it out and tell Lestrade… His mind turned to fog. It would be a miracle if he stayed conscious for five more minutes.

"You should thank me." Moriarty aimed his gun at them. "You should thank me for killing you. Trust me, trust someone who knows – death is far favorable to chaos."

Sherlock's eyesight was going blurry, so he didn't see the door behind Moriarty open. He heard it, though. Heard a boot kick through brass hinges. Footsteps. More guns cocking. Someone – Lestrade? – shouting his name. Moriarty's face had never looked more determined, more wolf-like. He aimed his weapon at John and fired. At the same time, Mary reared up onto her knees and threw the knife. Sherlock watched – fascinated – his sharp eyes seeing everything – as the bullet and the knife passed each other in mid-air. The bullet was no more than a millimeter above John's head. It traveled through his hair like a harpist's fingertips plucking strings. The cement wall behind them caught it. Mary had better aim. The knife pierced the soft spot of Moriarty's neck – just below his Adam's apple, just above his collarbone. Shocked, he mouthed the word "Bitch!" at her, then toppled forward to land facedown and frozen still in the water.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he lay there staring at Moriarty's dead body. It was long enough for the deep end of the pool to turn red, long enough for him to wonder at the fact that Moriarty had died in the same place as his first victim, Carl Powers. Long enough for an ambulance to arrive and strange hands to lift him onto a stretcher. And he was conscious long enough to see Molly Hooper walk into the room carrying a bundle of blankets in her arms. Mary burst into tears when Molly handed the bundle to John and John, grinning, kissed his infant daughter on the cheek.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock's eyelashes parted like a curtain and he found himself staring up at a hospital room ceiling. His foggy brain started to make deductions: his body was dry and didn't smell like chlorine, and his stomach felt stretched but no longer on fire with poison, so he'd been in the hospital long enough to begin to recover. He felt cold metal swaddling his right knee – a brace. He was thirsty enough to want to pull the fire alarm so that the sprinklers would rain down on him.

Without moving the rest of his body, Sherlock looked to the right and saw John piling blankets over something in the corner of the room. He finished, then half-limped, half-tiptoed over. His right shoulder was bandaged. John collapsed into a chair beside Sherlock's bed, raised his face towards the ceiling and sighed. Then he rubbed his eyes and put his face in his hands. He sat completely still for so long that Sherlock wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then, suddenly, John reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's wrist. Even though the heart monitor was beeping loudly and consistently, John felt for Sherlock's pulse. When he found it he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. He closed his hand around Sherlock's wrist and left it there. Then he released a single, wet sob.

The sound summoned Sherlock out of the last of his stupor. Adrenaline flashed through his veins and he woke up completely. He flipped his arm over and slid his wrist out of John's grip, and his hand into it. He squeezed his friend's fingers and whispered, " _John_."

John looked like a cartoon version of himself when he gasped, tripped to his feet, failed to speak coherently and, then, dropped the first cup of water that he filled. He took a deep breath, glared at his hands and poured again. Without making eye contact with Sherlock, John put the cup under his chin and inserted a straw between his dry, chapped lips. Sherlock drank three cups of water before he no longer felt thirsty. He didn't know what to say, what to ask first.

John picked up a newspaper from the bedside table and held it in front of Sherlock's face. The headline read: HEROIC DETECTIVE PARDONED. Below, also enlarged: SHERLOCK HOLMES SAVES QUEEN FROM BOMB. Sherlock had to read it three times before it dawned on him what had happened. "Bit colorful, Mycroft," he muttered.

John was all smiles. "You don't have to leave the country," he said. "You can go home – go back to Baker Street."

Sherlock considered that for a long moment. "But the bombs… the ones at the ghost stations—!"

"It's all right," John assured him. He set the newspaper down and sat on the side of the bed. "Molly told them what you said about that dust from Moriarty's shoe – remember? You put her on the hood of a police car and left her there?"

"I didn't leave her—"

"Lestrade sent teams to every station in London. They would've been killed if Mycroft hadn't returned to his office and retrieved more particles from the floor. He and Molly found a rare chemical in them and traced it to Baskerville. Lestrade’s men disarmed the bombs and sealed up the HOUND gas."

"But how did they find us at the pool?"

"Chlorine. There was chlorine in the dirt sample, but not in the HOUND gas. Molly remembered the swimming pool from _A Study in Pink_ —"

"For God’s sake—"

"They checked my blog for the name of the place and…" John shrugged, "surrounded the building."

"Lucky guesses," Sherlock snorted.

"Mary's all right. Mrs. Hudson and your parents, too. Lestrade is tracking down Moriarty's cohorts. My shoulder got busted but, you know, I don't really feel it. Your kneecap is broken. Greg has a couple broken ribs…"

"Who?" Sherlock tried to sit up in bed and John helped him after a particularly big wince. Sherlock cleared his throat. "So, you’re telling me that London was saved by the B-team."

John's expression flickered between amusement and irritation. "Sherlock. Lestrade is the Deputy Inspector and Mycroft is, as you say, the British government. WE'RE the B team."

Sherlock shut his eyes. The gentlest of smiles appeared on his face. "Perhaps. But this is OUR story, John."

Something squeaked in the corner of the room. Sherlock's eyes opened and squinted at the unfamiliar sound. He was about to ask John if St. Bart's was known for mice infestations when Watson's weight disappeared from the bed. He returned to the corner, bent over, and stood up again with something in his arms.

Something hiccupped – someONE, Sherlock realized. John sat on the side of the bed and angled the bundle towards him. "Oh," Sherlock whispered in awe.

The baby girl in John's arms was wide-eyed and cherub-cheeked. She squirmed, flapping arms she didn't know what to do with. Her nose was definitely John's. Mary was in her eyebrows and her cheekbones. Curious, Sherlock reached out to touch one pink, balled-up fist. He was too weak, though, and his hand collapsed back into his lap. Wordlessly, John adjusted the baby against the crook of his elbow. He was as gentle with Sherlock as he was with his daughter as he lifted his friend's hand, cupped it in his and delicately wrapped the baby's in the center of Sherlock's palm. The baby jumped and fixed her eyes on him.

"Oh," Sherlock repeated, his voice still a whisper. "Hello there, little Watson…"

"I wanted to name her 'Emily,'" said John. "Mary didn't like it. We bickered a bit but you can guess who won."

Sherlock smiled at the baby, and she smiled back.

"Mary insisted that we name her after her godfather," John explained. He paused a moment, and then said, "You will be her godfather, right?"

Sherlock gently rubbed the pad of his thumb across Sherl's tiny hand. "I vow to be a fantastic godfather," he said. And then he rotated his head to the side and kissed Sherl on the cheek.

**The End**


End file.
